


Mahal's Blade

by HufflepuffWarrior



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, Angst and Smut, Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, Maybe - Freeform, Multi, Pre-Smaug, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Violence, assassin!reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-08-03 02:31:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16317458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HufflepuffWarrior/pseuds/HufflepuffWarrior
Summary: Whispers and lies and sin fester in the shadows of Moria, shadows that have found a place in your heart, infused with your soul. Shadows you spin around yourself, hiding yourself from view. Many have seen you, yes, but none have lived to tell the tale. You are silent. You are deadly. You are poison.You are Mahal's Blade.When your king sends you to the Lonely Mountain to do the impossible, you have no choice but to obey him. You know it will be difficult, but it is only when the doors of Erebor open for you that you realize exactly how difficult.And when you meet unexpected obstacles in the form of eyes bluer than the purest flame, a voice like velvet and steel and a face you begin to ache for, every decision you've ever made, along with your loyalties, will be tested against your heart. Slowly but surely, the scales begin to tip, threatening to plunge you into the oblivion born of your own mistakes. At a crossroads, you are forced to choose, between life and love, between your blades and your heart.Which will it be?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I know what you're all thinking—what is she playing at, releasing a new story while the other one is still unfinished and hanging? What's her problem?
> 
> And I know, I'm sorry. But I fear my currently-unfinished story may remain indefinitely unfinished, due to a lull in storyline. But feel free to treat the latest chapter as the last, it makes sense. 
> 
> If you're not thinking the former, then hi, welcome to my newest story! Disclaimer for all, this is a dark fantasy, quite gory, and with an elusive main character that you may never truly get to know. On that cheerful note, hope you like it, and comments are, as usual, always welcome. So buckle up, and on with the show!

You braided your hair carefully, biting your lip with concentration as you pulled the strands over and under each other in a complex weave. Securing it closed with a metal clasp chased with gold, you located your black felt half-mask, setting it carefully to your face. It molded to your fine bones, the contours of your face. You stood back, surveying your reflection thoughtfully. 

Your face was drawn and pinched, your eyes too wide, too fever-bright. You'd taken to drinking, alternating between coffee and sharp alcohol, to keep yourself awake at night. That was the only way you could possibly resist the pull of sleep. And sleep was a luxury you couldn't afford. As a result, your cheeks were flushed but slightly sunken, and your lips were chapped and dry. Your skin was stretched too tightly across your cheekbones, and they stood out in stark relief. 

But there was no time to fret about your hollow appearance. You snatched up your cloak from where it hung on the wall, flinging it over your tight-fitting leather pants and tunic. Drawing the hood up over your face, you left the room. 

You wove through the corridors, barely thinking as you did; you were so used to the snaking passages and the vast halls of Moria that your mind wasn't even in the task as you navigated through the stone halls. Locating the correct hallway, you strode along it, your black cloak billowing behind you. You pushed the doors open, stalking down the long, vast gallery that led to the throne. 

Once you reached it you knelt, an elbow resting on your bent knee as you bowed your head. "Your Majesty," you said, looking up at the king. He nodded gravely at you, the black and silver crown on his head glinting in the still moonlight spilling inside from the crystalline windows behind the throne. "Rise, Y/N," he said, and you got to your feet fluidly. 

"What would you have me do today, my lord?" Your voice was cool, monitored, neutral. The throne room was empty besides you and the king, and you preferred it that way—you hated it when people knew what it was you did for a living. It was an honor, of course, to be the king's champion, his chosen. But at what price?

"A duke and his courtiers," said the king. "I have collected information that he collaborated with the rebels and wishes to cut me down."

"Which duke, my lord?"

"Duke Alaan," he said, naming a figure you—with a pang in your chest, you realized—knew. He'd smiled at you, once, at one of those social events. He'd seemed charming and harmless. But then again, so did everyone else the king named for you. 

"Very well, my lord." You dipped your chin, and at a wave of his hand you turned around, striding along the corridor the way you came. You shouldered the doors open, your jaw set, and nearly collided with a figure on the other side.

You moved backwards gracefully, your years and years of training guiding your limbs as you gazed at the figure you nearly bumped into. Your eyes flashed when you recognized him—tall but broad, tangled blond hair and silvery-gray eyes. You bowed your head with a murmured, "My prince."

His eyes latched onto the insignia woven on your cloak, the silver sign of Moria. They moved slowly to your face, which was hidden by the hood and mask. He seemed to search your shadowed face, and said nothing, just pushing past you and heading into the throne room, the doors falling shut behind him with a loud boom. 

You sighed irritably, moving along the hall again. The older princess was much more loose with you, never really questioning you when she saw you. But the younger prince—he was almost a nuisance. He, like so many others, didn't know what it was you did, and every time he saw you he would make it very clear that he didn't appreciate your presence by his father's side. He didn't even know your name, or know how you looked. For Mahal's sake, he didn't even know if you were a man or a woman. 

But then, nobody did, nobody but the king. You preferred it that way. You didn't want anyone to know what you did. Sometimes you wished even you could forget that you earned your coin by staining your hands with the blood of your king's enemies. 

You moved deeper into the mines, gritting your teeth against the torrent of memories, countless people's lives ended by your hand, your blade, your weapons. You hated it, of course you did; would anyone not hate killing for a living? The king, he called you his champion, his vassal. But you knew what you really were, and that was an assassin. Someone who murdered on another's command, another's order. 

And you hated yourself for it. 

You turned into the wing of the kingdom where the duke stayed, stopping in front of the right door. He would be sleeping inside, peaceful, unaware that his own king wanted him dead, and he was making you get rid of him for him. And for what? A petty conspiracy? An alleged statement? Nebulous proof and vaporous evidence? 

You swallowed your guilt and doubt and pushed the door open, soundless and stealthy. You slipped inside, the door falling half-shut behind you. As you'd known, Alaan was asleep, blissfully unaware. There was someone next to him—his consort, you knew, a young man you'd met before. _Hamen,_ whispered a voice in your head. That was his name. His eyes, you knew, though they were closed now, were a cheerful, warm brown; he'd winked at you once, at one of those events, arm in arm with Alaan. 

The skylight was propped open, and the lilac silk, gauzy curtains were rustling in the breeze. Outside, the sky was pitch-black, a smattering of stars visible against the velvety blackness, like diamonds strewn across the surface. The moon was a silver coin in the sky. 

A slant of light from its silvery surface fell onto the bed, illuminating it. You knew that when his blood spilled, it would look black in the moonlight. You'd seen too many deaths like this one. All by your hand. You drew up to the bed, blocking the light slightly; Alaan stirred but didn't wake, turning his head to the side, his arm tightening around Hamen in a subconscious gesture.

You were suddenly hyperaware of every weapon you had on you—your broadsword, strapped to your back; the hunting daggers on your forearms, ready to be released by a flick of your wrist; the stilettos in your boots, the hilts pressing against your calves; the throwing stars at your belt; the slender misericorde at your waist. 

You flexed your right arm slightly, and a hunting dagger slid from its hidden sheath, fitting neatly into your palm. You swallowed, moving closer to the sleeping figure on the bed. He murmured, stirring again. He said something in his sleep—a name. Hamen's. What he would say next, you didn't know.

Nobody would ever know. 

You caught up a cloth from your pocket, warm and heavy with the drug you'd dipped it in. Its sharp scent wafted through the air, sweet and pinching. Stepping forward with eerie soundlessness, you pressed it to Hamen's mouth and nose, too quickly for the eye to see. You knew it had worked instantly—he tensed, then relaxed, his body going limp. Now he was out of the way, and the next time he would open his eyes, his lover would be dead in his arms. A familiar pang went through your chest at the thought, but you didn't miss a beat, slipping the cloth back into your pocket.

You took a deep breath, the cold of the moment before the kill settling in your bones. This was always the most difficult part. You lifted the sword, and the moonlight caught the edge, running along the curved surface like a drop of quicksilver. You brought the sword down towards Alaan's chest, a whirling, blurred arc of pure destruction.

His eyes opened just before the blade pierced his skin.

+++

You stood under the jet of freezing cold water from the shower, your eyes closed and your face tilted up towards the cold. It ran in wet lines down your naked body, tracing the scars on your skin, so many you'd lost count years ago.

You lifted your hands, running them through your wet hair, sighing. You glanced down, where the water ran tinged pink down the drain—Alaan's blood, but also your own. He'd put up a fight, before he went out, and he'd slashed you with a shard of glass from the broken pitcher on his nightstand, across your side. But in the end he'd lost. Just like all the others. 

Your fingers found the wound, a thin, shallow thing. You glanced down, watching the water clean the wound. You shut your eyes, trying not to think of the way the light had leached from his eyes, leaving them cold and empty. You didn't want to remember the way you'd decapitated him after he died, dropping the head into a sack before leaving, setting off to the throne room again.

You'd showed the king your grisly trophy, to which he smiled and said, "An excellent job as usual, my champion. He was growing into a hindrance, that dwarf." Then he'd leaned back and dismissed you, smiling all the while. You'd forced yourself to smile back, making sure the arrogance he expected showed. Then you'd dropped the sack at his feet and left. 

You turned the shower off and stepped out, uncaring about the cold air that hit you, raising goosebumps on your exposed skin. You dried yourself quickly and threw on a clean tunic, leaving your legs bare as you left the bathroom, heading to your bed and collapsing onto it, your damp hair spread out around your head. 

No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't sleep. The coffee and liquor you'd drunk before heading out was still in your system, and you were too wound up to sleep besides. You still tried though, for your own benefit and no one else's. It took you about three hours of trying before you realized it was impossible. 

You sat up, drawing your knees up to your chest. You wondered idly if you'd ever be able to sleep a full night ever again. You'd been young, only thirty, when you'd gotten this job, being the best trained assassin in Middle-earth. They even called you Mahal's Blade for your stealth, your accuracy, your ruthlessness and your merciless methods. Everyone in Middle-earth knew your name, _that_ name—but nobody knew who you were. No one but the king. 

It had been different when you were training under the most deadly assassin in the west. It had been good, a good way to forget the trauma of your childhood. You washed away the memories of your past in the training, the bruises and cuts and scars you got. You weren't ashamed of them, not at all. They were your badges of honor, a map of your bravery and your achievements. Even if those achievements were murders. 

But this was something else, something terrible. You never thought your talent would be honed to this, to this mindless killing and planned murder you were asked to perform. If your tutor could see you now, he would turn away, shun you, tell you what he taught you should not be used for this. 

But he was dead, and he was the past now. Just another scar on your body. 

There was a sudden knock on your door. Three slow taps, two fast taps, four slow taps, one fast tap. _The king wishes to see you._

You rolled out of bed in a flash, pulling on a pair of trousers and throwing on your cloak and mask. You strode out, almost at a run. You may have hated what you did, but you couldn't deny you couldn't live without it, in a way. It kept you going, even if it killed you, like a drug. 

You burst into the throne room, almost running to where the king sat. You bowed and rose, breathless from your sprint through the mines. "My lord?"

"Vassal." He nodded at you. "I have a task for you."

"So soon?"

He nodded. "It is of the utmost importance. There is an enemy I need you to dispose of for me, one most powerful and important."

You waited, and he went on. "Champion, you have served me well all these years. Your tasks have been, however, always within these halls of Moria. Now is the time to test your loyalty, your skill, your stealth, your secrecy. This time you will be sent to another kingdom."

You tried to hide your surprise. "My lord?"

"The king has been most bothersome," he said. "He fraternizes with elves and men, disgraces the name of dwarves, and stole the throne from me—the throne I was meant to have, he took. For that I will never forgive."

"You wish for me to kill the king?" You blinked, bewildered. "My lord, that is—"

"Not impossible," he said. "If you plan it well, stay there for months, stray ever closer, I guarantee you will be able to get close enough to deliver the final blow. I have faith in you, my champion. End his line. His sons and his son's sons must all be wiped out. Only with their heads will you return to me."

"But—my lord—a whole line of kings, I will certainly be discovered." Your hands flew around as you spoke, your agitation lifting them. "I will have to stay there for a long while, and I will need an alias, another identity."

"Indeed. You will go east bearing the name of Alyna of Moria, a gentry woman who is there for a diplomatic visit, one that requires your direct interaction with their line. You will get inside, learn their secrets. Perhaps you could use one of the princes, for there are two—young men are easy to sway with a pretty face and an open bedroom door." He smiled at you, and you swallowed hard, you face flushing. "It will be easy."

"But, my lord—"

"Do you reject my command?" His voice was full of authority, and you sensed the threat behind the words. You bowed your head in submission, wondering what on earth you were getting yourself into. "Of course not, my lord. I only have never carried out a mission of such magnitude."

You looked up. "Which line of kings do you wish for me to eradicate?"

His smile was like quicksilver, elusive and cold and devoid of life, metallic. "I wish for you to go to the Lonely Mountain," he said. "I wish for you to wipe out the line of Durin, descendants of the Deathless. Only when they are all dead will you return to me. Journey east and into Erebor, and kill them all."


	2. First Impressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Ballrooms, the Arkenstone and potent wine._ Your arrival at the Lonely Mountain goes smoothly enough, though watchful eyes and lingering suspicious make themselves heard through their silence. But, like so many other things, Erebor may not be exactly what it seems...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's chapter 2... Next one might take a while, so sit tight! Hope you like this one. Reviews are, of course, always appreciated.

You stepped through the vast gates of the Lonely Mountain and caught your breath. Or, rather, you had your breath stolen from your lungs entirely. 

You'd grown up in Moria, among the cavernous halls and massive stone structures and huge statues. But this... this was an entirely new definition of massive. The doors were so high they seemed lost in shadow, and the peak so high it grazed the clouds. Everything was built from cold, rich green marble, and it seemed to glow around you. 

You stepped deeper inside, clutching your bag to your chest protectively. You were dressed rather impractically in a gown of deep red, as befitted your status as gentry. You made sure your features were visible clearly, for they bore the cast of Moria—wide-spaced eyes, bow-shaped lips, cliff-high cheekbones and sun-leached skin. 

You walked inside, glancing around furtively. Despite the fact that you were looking around only for strategic purposes, you couldn't help but admire the architecture, the beautiful archways and halls and marble staircases. The dwarves milling about barely spared you a second glance, which you didn't mind at all. 

The journey had been long and arduous, but you'd had an escorting caravan, since you were temporarily gentry. But now you were alone, as you preferred it. The escort had dispersed to their respective rooms upon arriving, and since the king had received a missive informing him of your arrival, you had nothing to worry about. 

Still, your heart fluttered as you reached the tall double doors that led to the throne room. The guards standing by the sides opened them slowly and you walked inside, head held high. 

The passageway that led to the throne was long and slender, hanging suspended a thousand feet from the ground. You could see the whole kingdom crisscrossing beneath your feet, spinning away underneath you. You forced down your vertigo and looked ahead, where a massive twisted hunk of stone from the ceiling tapered into a point, from where the throne began. 

Set into said throne was something beautiful and ethereal and divine, something that looked as if it had been plucked from the heavens—a star, gleaming in the stone. No, not a star, you realized as you moved closer, but a jewel. One that looked as if it were made of the clearest glass, and then Mahal had placed a universe inside it, one that exploded with galactic colors of shell pink and cyan blue and pure white. _The Arkenstone._

You tore your eyes away with difficulty, focusing instead on the king seated on the throne, the dwarf you were there to kill. He was watching you out of a guarded gray gaze, and his expression was hidden behind a thick white beard woven with mail. The gold and black crown gleamed on his head. 

You dropped into a low curtsy. "King Thror," you said, pitching your voice at a low, docile murmur. You rose, swallowing, seeing four figures out of the corner of your eye standing by the throne. An older dwarf, his beard and hair streaked liberally with gray. Thrain, Thror's son. And then the young tousle-haired dwarf next to him, prince Frerin. The haughty-looking, blue-eyed brother, prince Thorin. And the tall, imposing princess Dís. 

And you were supposed to kill all of them. 

"Lady Alyna of Moria," said Thror, nodding at you. "Welcome to Erebor. I'm sure your journey has been an exhausting one, and so I will not take much of your time."

"Thank you, my lord." You bowed your head. 

"You are here to study our ways, as I understood from your king's letter," he said, and you nodded. "How long will you be here, if I may ask?"

You answered as neutrally as possible. "About six or seven months, my lord. One can never tell, with these things."

"Of course." He nodded at you. "I certainly hope you find what you seek in these halls."

"Thank you, my lord." But inside you something seemed to crack and break, something that was painful to dwell on. You hoped, for your sake and theirs, that their deaths would be quick.

+++

You gazed at the deadly fan of silver blades spread out on your bed and frowned.

The room they'd given you was lavish, to say the least. Silk drapes, a four-poster bed, a huge tiled bathroom with a claw-footed tub big enough to fit several people, and a roaring marble fireplace. It was beautiful but brittle, just as all beauty was superficial. 

You'd dressed in a dark green velvet dress for the dinner that night, but you didn't know what blades to keep, and if you needed blades at all. You doubted you'd need to use them, but it was always good to be prepared. 

You shrugged and slipped a curved stiletto into your bodice, patting the fabric into place over the slight bulge. Then you hid the rest of your weapons carefully all over the room—under a loose floorboard beneath the bed, inside a hidden niche in the bathroom, in an unused drawer in the dresser. 

Once you were satisfied, you left the room, remembering what your king had told you before you'd left: "The way you walk, it is too entitled, too forceful. Make your gait slow, calm, dainty. Do not hold your head too high, but make sure you seem confident. Fool them before you finish them and you will have truly succeeded."

You slowed your gait, holding your skirts as you walked. This would be harder than you thought. 

The hall too, was massive, cavernous, and took your breath away entirely. A chandelier dripped crystal, the walls were painted with murals that spoke of ages past, and the ceiling was domed and arching. It all seemed to be shimmering, as if dusted with glitter. 

If possible, the people were yet more impressive. They drifted around like ghosts, in finery that shamed the best in Moria that you had seen, at least. You descended the steps, your chin tilted up slightly. Again, nobody looked at you twice as you wandered about, picking up a dark glass of wine from a passing waiter as you did.

You sipped it, nodding with approval. It was good wine, strong and musky and rich. Just strong enough to make your head spin after a glass. You picked up another regardless, uncaring. 

"Enjoying Erebor so far?" 

You were startled, but didn't jump—you were too well-trained for that—as you turned to see the older prince, Frerin, at your shoulder. He was tall, and slender, with shoulder-length tawny hair pulled into numerous braids at the sides, and a beard the same color, dusting his cheeks and chin. His eyes were a careful, dark gray. The smile he dropped you didn't reach them. 

You smiled back just as blandly. "Quite," you said. "It certainly dwarfs Moria by quite a bit." You let out a tinkling laugh. "A woman could get lost in these halls."

"Somehow, you don't strike me as the kind of woman who gets lost easily," he said. His head was cocked to the side thoughtfully. 

"I shall take that as a compliment," you said, allowing a faint blush to bloom in your cheeks. What your king had said about the princes and seducing them flashed in your head and you immediately felt sickened. 

He didn't seem to rise to the bait, however. He only smiled disarmingly, but again his eyes remained cold. "It was certainly meant as one," he said. Then he inclined his head to you slightly before turning and walking away, vanishing in the crowd. You watched him go, guilt writhing in your stomach. 

Dinner was an affair of too much food and wine, and you made sure to stop after two glasses. The princess was seated at your right, and what conversation you made was sparse and polite. You noticed the youngest of the three looking at you almost suspiciously, and when your falsely shy eyes rose to his, they narrowed. You had to admit, he was fine-looking, with the sort of face that could only be royalty; an arching brow, a sweeping jaw, dark hair and a sharply planed nose, with burning blue eyes. His face was expressionless, and he looked away after a moment. The look on his face reminded you of the younger prince back at home, and his glares at you from across the room, his quiet suspicion of you. 

It made unease grow in your stomach, but you said nothing. Instead you looked away, deliberately biting down on your lip. You didn't want to win their favor or get close to them by offering to open your legs for them, which was what any woman in this situation would probably do. But you had dignity, and you didn't want to resort to lying with one of them just to make it easier to kill them. In fact, that would make it worse—if you were to get intimate with them, wouldn't it be harder to end their lives, in the end? 

You sipped your wine again, bored. You occasionally caught the crystalline blue flash of prince Thorin's eyes on you, but he always looked away a split second later. His lambent suspicion was beginning to grate on you, but you didn't show it. 

Once the dinner was done and all the pleasantries were exchanged, you drifted off towards the princess, who was standing alone near the corner. You moved over to her, dropping her a polite nod. "Princess Dís."

"Lady Alyna." She nodded back. "I hope you are finding Erebor agreeable thus far?"

"Most agreeable," you said. "It is a lovely kingdom."

"That it is." She smiled at you. She was very pretty, with thick dark hair gathered up at the back of her head and dark blue eyes. There was something like her father in her watchful eyes, and her brothers in the cast of her mouth and the ridge of her nose. "I must admit I have never been to Moria, despite our close relations," she went on. 

"A pity," you said warmly. "I'm sure you would have loved it."

"Father says the same thing," she said. "It sounds lovely." There was no wistfulness in her voice, only curiosity. She was, altogether, a very difficult person to read. Though you detected something like playfulness in her demeanor, and a sense of responsibility, of somber purpose. You pushed yourself away from her mentally, feeling the dagger under your bodice like a blade of ice against your skin. Reminding you of your purpose here, your agenda. You were not there to sympathize with the princess, you were there to kill her. 

"What do you do in your spare time?" she asked. "Is there anything you like to do?"

 _Besides killing, you mean?_ "Well," you said, "I love to read and write, and learning languages. I train as well, with a variety of weapons." You bit your tongue after you said it. Was that giving it away too much?

"Ah, finally, a woman who can fight," laughed Dís. "I was afraid that every girl I met would think the fighting should be left to the men." Her eyes glimmered. "It was growing quite irritating."

"I'm sure," you laughed. "I haven't met many women who fight, either."

"I've heard of rumors that say that the legendary Mahal's Blade is a woman," said Dís with a smile. "I must admit I'm quite partial to that rumor, even if Mahal's Blade is a ruthless killer." 

Your smile didn't waver or falter at all. "Agreed," you said. "Why do only men get to be murderous lunatic assassins?"

"Be sure to ask that question more often," said Dís with a grin. "You're sure to receive many scandalized looks in reply."

You laughed easily despite the pounding of your heart. "What about you, princess? Anything you like to do in your spare time?"

"I read," she sighed. "And fight, of course—both with blades and with my brothers." At that you smiled. "I study, since one day I'll be by my brother's side as advisor to the king, and I require practice. Besides that, I don't really do much."

"Advisor to the king," you echoed. "It would be an honor."

"Indeed."

There was silence for a few minutes. Then Dís nodded at you. "I think I'll go to bed. I'll see you tomorrow, lady Alyna."

Being addressed by an unfamiliar name would take some getting used to, but you nodded fluidly, not missing a beat. She glided off, humming softly. You felt a sort of pang in your chest, one that wasn't welcome; you didn't want to like her, not already. It was too soon, too much. How would you kill these people?

You located the king and bade him good night, claiming a headache from your long journey and heading back to your room. As you left, you saw the eyes of the youngest prince on you again, a flash of blue fire just before the doors closed. You returned the look boldly, and to your satisfaction, he looked away quickly, his dark lashes feathering on his cheeks as he blinked. You smirked and allowed the door to fall shut before you walked away down the corridor and out of sight.

+++

You tossed and turned in a fitful, restless sleep, terrible dreams of flashing blades and the dead princess and princes and king, blood spurting from their wounds, haunted your nightmares.

You saw Dís clutching at her throat, slashed to ribbons by your blades; you saw burning blue eyes empty and lifeless; you saw a distant, twisted smile slack in death, and a black and gold crown smeared with blood, clattering to the ground. 

And you stood above all of it, your weapons stained with blood, your hands covered in it, dark red and the coppery iron stench of it filling you. You choked on it, the blood you'd spilled, as it rose in your lungs and blocked off your breath. You coughed and it spattered on the ground, red-black and disgusting—

You sat up straight, gasping, your hair sticking to your forehead with sweat, your palms slick with it. You took great gulps of air, breathing deeply. A mission had never affected you like this before, never made you feel so horribly guilty. You didn't want to kill them. You didn't. They hadn't done anything wrong. But then again, nobody the king told you to kill ever did anything wrong. He only asked you to kill them because they were his enemies, no one else's. Not the crown's enemies, just his. 

You knew it, and yet you did it. You supposed you could walk out, say no. But that would mean ridding yourself of the only means of subsistence you had. If not for this job, you would be destitute on the streets, or maybe a cheap assassin on the side. You knew that if you wanted to use your skill, then the only option you had was this. 

You moved into the bathroom, splashing cold water onto your face and gazing at yourself in the mirror. You looked less gaunt, more fuller, and less like a skeleton. Your hair was straggling around your face, a tangled cloud. You looked more like yourself than you ever did in the past few years. Being the king's champion was not an easy job. 

You went back to bed, lying lengthwise on the soft mattress. It was lovely room, a thousand times more luxurious than your tiny, dingy little room at Moria, where you barely spent any time. Here there was a silent message, telling you that you would be able to make yourself comfortable here, call it home if you wanted to. 

But you knew you would never want to. 

You thought with a sudden pang of your tutor. He'd been like everything to you, your whole life. He'd been your existence, your sustenance, your penance, all at once. You'd looked up to him as a child, and had admired him as a teenager, but later... You quickly dislodged the memories as they threatened to choke you, pushing them away, locking them up. Thinking of what Eroan had meant to you was a weakness, a shard of glass in your heart.

So instead you thought of what he'd taught you, what you'd learned from him when he'd first taken you in, an abandoned child in the streets. He'd taught you how to hold a sword, shoot a bow, throw a disc, weild a dagger. He'd meant so much to you, symbolized all the good things about the world. Watching him die had been the most difficult thing you'd ever done in your life. But more difficult than that had been heeding his last order: _"Leave me, save yourself, run. Don't look back."_ You had, blinded by tears, and you'd regretted it for the rest of your life. 

You always would. But you had the oddest feeling that if you went through with the mission you were there to carry out, you would end up regretting it even more than leaving Eroan to die. You'd always known this was a bad idea, but you still didn't know how bad it would turn out to be. Perhaps it wouldn't be all that bad. Maybe you would be able to go through with it without wanting to stab yourself at the end of it.

As you finally dropped off into an uneasy sleep again, you had no idea how wrong you were.

+++

The first thing you noticed the next morning at breakfast was that the prince had stopped staring at you.

At first you were relieved; his glaring had irritated you. But later your relief melted into a sort of unease, as if you sensed he knew something you didn't. You knew that was probably simply paranoia, but you couldn't shake the feeling. 

You made cheerful conversation with Dís again, feeling as miserable as you did happy; you truly thought that you'd found a friend, but you didn't want her to be a friend. You wanted to keep everyone as distant from you as possible, so that when you'd kill them, there wouldn't be any betrayal in their eyes. You didn't think you'd be able to stand it if you saw betrayal in their eyes when you'd kill them. 

"And I chased him away," she laughed. "He never came back."

"I'm sure your father was thrilled," you said with a smile. She rolled her eyes. "Oh, he was ecstatic, as you can probably tell. He so wants me to find a suitor, but I don't want to marry. I find it a burdening bond. Too many vows, too many promises, and not enough fulfillment."

"Some would disagree," you observed. 

"Like you, perhaps?" She arched a dark brow and you shrugged. "I never even thought of marriage," you said. "I'm married to my profession." Your blades and weapons flashed behind your eyes as you said it, and your reminiscent smile wasn't fake. You were finding that a lot of your emotions while speaking with the princess weren't fake. It was disgruntling. 

"No special dwarf at home?" she teased. 

"I'm afraid not." You laughed. 

The rest of breakfast passed in a flurry of schedules and timings, and the room emptied slowly. You were leaving on the pretense of changing your dress to more suit wandering around the Mountain, and the door had just closed behind you when you heard a voice calling your name. 

Well—not your real name, but you'd trained yourself over the past few hours to respond naturally to Alyna and not Y/N. It was getting easier, but it was still odd. 

You turned to see the younger prince, loping towards you on a graceful, long stride. He caught up to you easily, and his face was entirely expressionless, only his lips slightly parted. He was also rather unfairly tall, and despite your being a tall woman for your age, he had a good four inches on you. 

"Prince Thorin," you said. You inclined your head to him. "How may I be of assistance?"

"I require none." He sounded the way he looked—haughty and distant. Those eyes, which you'd only seen in brief flashes, were now looking only at you, and the full force of his undivided attention was startling. You blinked and looked back at him. "I see. Is there anything you wish to speak to me about?"

"The king of Moria, we haven't heard from him in years," he said, and despite his being the younger of the two brothers, his bearing was more regal, his shoulders broader, his voice deeper. There were two slender braids on either side of his temples, held with silver clasps, stark against the ink-black of his hair. The beard that covered his jaw but didn't hide it was just as dark, and it was startling against his pale skin. "What does he mean by sending you here on such short notice?"

"My king, I assure you, bears no ill will towards Erebor," you said, tilting your head to the side and regarding him innocently. "I am here only on my own discretion and my king's consent."

His eyes moved over your face and something about the weight of his gaze made your pulse race, and your skin itch. Perhaps it was the way every nerve in your body was screaming _Enemy! Enemy!_

But he wasn't an enemy—not really. Not unless you made it so, which you would. But something about him reminded you of a panther, that languid, shifting grace and the watchful eyes and the narrowed gaze. You immediately singled him out as one you should be more careful around. The sudden bifurcation seemed to be faintly visible on your face, because his mouth tightened. 

"I should hope you are," was all he said. His voice was cold, and you felt your face close, a mask of frozen calm replacing it. 

"I'm sorry," you said, and your voice was as cold as his. "But that sounded like a threat."

He didn't budge. "I did not mean it as one, but it seems odd that you would see it as one."

You felt your upper lip curl. "I've known you all for all of two days," you said. "And from what I have seen thus far, and I am very good at reading people, I get the impression that you are all hiding something from the rest of the world."

His sneer could rival your own. "And you intend to find out what?" He managed to make it sound mocking, and you refrained from snarling at him with immense difficulty. 

"Yes," you said. "As a matter of fact, I do." 

And with that you spun on your heel and stalked away down the corridor. In your brief flare of rage, you'd forgotten to correct your gait and posture, and you didn't notice his eyes narrowing at the forceful, predatory steps you took, or the entitled tilt to your chin, and that he stayed gazing after you long after you had disappeared around the corner.

+++

You picked up a slender, curved dagger, your eyes running along its voluptuous length. There was a massive emerald the size of a child's fist set into the handle, and the blade, while its edges were crafted with steel, was forged from pure silver and gold. It had been a gift from the king, after you'd made your very first kill on his command. It was an expensive trinket, though admittedly not fun to use; cleaning the blood off the precious metal was hardly how you wished to spend your time after a kill.

Tossing it back into your bag, you held another blade up, your fingers encircling the hilt perfectly. It fit into your palm snugly, with no complaint, made of simple black leather. The blade was the length of your forearm, made of steel and iron, plain and unpretentious. You held it with only a finger beneath the crossguard, admiring how well it balanced, hilt and handle and blade. It had been your very first weapon, this one a gift from your tutor, Eroan. He'd smiled at you, and pressed the hilt into your ten-year-old hands, and told you to use it well. 

You had loved it the moment you'd touched it, and even now it was your favorite blade. You'd named it _Ukrad_ , as a child, the Khuzdul word meaning _greatest heart_ , since you'd loved it so when you'd first held it. You knew it was a childish name, but you couldn't bring yourself to change it; it would be like trying to rewrite the stars, or change the smell of rain—too deeply rooted into the universe to be changed. 

Turning with a fluid, cold grace, you leaned back, the dagger held tight in your fist, and then tipped forward, fingers freeing he handle. The blade flew end over end in the air before slamming into the tapestry on the wall, directly at the center of the Arkenstone, which gleamed, woven from fabrics of silver and blue and white. 

You stepped back, breathing hard, gazing silently at the dagger embedded into the tapestry. Despite the fact that Ukrad was your favorite weapon, you had never, ever used it for a kill. Not once had you unsheathed it on a mission from the king, and you only ever used it to practice, or for more conventional uses. You'd sworn that you would never stain Ukrad's blade with blood. Your own, perhaps, but never another's. You'd sworn it to Eroan, and to yourself. And you fully intended to uphold that promise. 

You unsheathed another blade, this time a long, slender sword. It was of elvish make, though you didn't know where the king had gotten it from—he'd never told you, and you had never asked. You had accepted it graciously, and had said nothing of the rusty stains that smeared the single edge when he had gifted it to you. Only once you'd observed them in the privacy of your room, you'd realized that the blood was more sheer, slightly lighter, more lustrous. Elvish blood. You had felt sickened, but had cleaned the blade, and when the king gave you an order the next day, you had used it. 

You swept it through the air, marveling at how light it was, as you did every time you used it. It felt like a feather in your hand, airy and streamlined and balanced. You loved this blade, but perhaps not as much as your Dwarvish weapons, which suited your stature more. After all, you were Mahal's Blade, and as befitted your epithet, you were a dwarf, and were to use the weapons of your people. 

The blade was blued steel, and as you held it to the light it turned a dazzling, fathomless blue, the color of the afternoon sky just falling into evening, intense and distilled. Unbidden in your mind rose an image of eyes the same color, fringed by dusky lashes that feathered against pale creamy skin. The way those eyes had looked at you with open hostility, guarded trust, suspicion and predatory watchfulness. How you'd felt suddenly torn open and naked and exposed beneath that gaze, as if he could see all that you were hiding. 

There was something about the intensity of that gaze, something that had made you want to tell him everything, reveal all your secrets, allow the wound you had stitched closed countless times rip open and let all the emotions out. Something that made him different, from every other person you'd ever met in all your life. 

An involuntary shiver trailed down your spine and you quickly sheathed the blade, shaking your head. You were the best-trained assassin in all of Arda, for Mahal's sake—you were not going to fall prey to the tricks of a prince. Least of all one you were there to kill in cold blood. And you were not about to allow him to affect you; you'd sworn it, that you'd never let another near your heart again, not after Eroan...

You exhaled, shaking your head and gazing instead again at the tapestry, the Arkenstone pierced by your blade. Soon, that would come to life. Soon, Erebor would fall at the hands of Mahal's Blade. Soon, it would all be over. All you had to do was wait, and watch, and then the story would end. And you would walk away, as you did every time, hands and blades stained red, and you'd wash it all away, though the memories would remain. 

_Soon_ , you thought, and with that thought in your mind, you began to prepare for bed.


End file.
